Saturday Night

I sit click clacking at my keyboard pouring out my demons onto a screenplay and the phone riiiiings. It's Shelly. She's bored. I choose to ignore. The phone riiiiiiiings again.
I pick up. '1-800 Dirty Sluts,' I say.
'Hi, Dirty Sluts. I can't come in to work tonight,' says Shelly.
'Hey,' I say.
'Hey,' she says. 'How goes the great Canadian screenplay?'
'Working on it as we speak,' I say. 'It's therapy.'
'I saw you from the bus today. The fuck is going on with your face?' she asks.
'I am attempting. A goatee. Thank you,' I say.
'Looks ridiculous,' says good old Shelly.
'So does yours,' I say.
'What, did you, just say, to me?' she asks.
'I told you that your goatee looks stupid, too,' I say.
Click.
I go back to my typing. The phone immediately riiiiiiiiings again. It would seem we are feeling dramatic this evening. I pick up.
'Dirty Sluts,' I say.
Shelly laughs. 'I can't believe you said that.'
'Uh huh,' I say. 'Hey, who have you fucked in the film industry?'
'Nobody whose anybody,' she says. 'Why?'
'My soundtrack alone is running about half a million dollars on this thing I'm writing. We're going to need big backing, Baby,' I say.
'Dream big, Petey Boy,' Shelly says.
'Dream my ass,' I say. 'Watch me.'
'I'm coming over,' says Shelly.
'I know. I got movies and ice cream,' I say.
'Leaving now,' she says.
'If you don't ring up or call before 1 AM the police learn your name,' I say.
'Such a sweet paranoid boy,' Shelly says.
'Start reading the Vancouver papers and you'd feel the same,' I say.
Click.
I just start to type again and , of course, riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing.
I pick up the phone again. 'Sluts,' I say.
'What kind of ice cream?' Shelly asks.
'Double chocolate,' I say.
Click, me this time.
Twenty minutes later Shelly rings up to my place. And that's it for the writing this evening.